


up early

by Koraki



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Backstory, Dogs, Gen, Mentioned Roy Mustang, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-31
Updated: 2016-10-31
Packaged: 2018-08-28 00:46:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8424142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Koraki/pseuds/Koraki
Summary: Riza goes duck hunting before breakfast.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Brachylagus_fandom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brachylagus_fandom/gifts).



They’re out of lamp oil again and candles aren’t allowed in the bedroom, so Riza makes her bed and tugs on her clothes and fumbles against the wall for her boots in the dark. It’s cold, too – low on firewood as usual, and nobody with any time to cut it – and she shivers in the long sleeves of her flannel shirt as she moves down the hall, stepping carefully. The creaky stairs are easy for her to navigate without seeing by now, but halfway down she pauses to squint ahead. A light in the kitchen. Somebody’s up before her.

When she reaches the kitchen, Riza amends her assumption; her father’s apprentice has clearly been working through the night, though whether or not he’s awake _now_ is questionable. He’s nodding over his books at the kitchen table in what could be study or sleep, several layers of blankets draped precariously over his shoulders, the candle beside him burning its way steadily down to a stub. She moves quietly into the kitchen. He doesn’t look up when she crosses behind him, but from that distance she can hear the sluggish squeak of pencil over paper and knows that he’s still conscious. Maybe only just.

She opens up the bread box, very quietly, and takes a piece of the bread that she made yesterday, making sure to leave enough for breakfast later. He doesn’t acknowledge her. Whether he’s actively ignoring her or so far gone he isn’t aware of her presence, Riza has no idea, but she’s grateful for it.

There’s cheese too, but not much, so she leaves it for someone else and steps out of the kitchen, trying to make her boots go softer on the wooden floors so as not to be a disturbance. By the time she’s in the front hall she’s made short work of the bread. She dusts the crumbs off her hands – _have to sweep later anyways_ – before taking her father’s worn jacket from the hook in the front hall. She pulls it on, the sleeves already rolled to accommodate her short arms, then goes up the stepstool to take the ancient rifle from its place above the door, the movements like second nature even in the dark.

The door creaks when she eases it open, and she pauses as usual, waiting to be sure she hasn’t woken anyone. When she hears nothing from within the house she breathes relief and goes on her way.

Outside the air’s dark and misty with cold. Riza crosses the front porch quickly, suppressing another shiver, and moves down the wooden steps with expert speed, careful to avoid the rotten board that fully gave out yesterday. She thinks she’ll try her hand at fixing it tomorrow morning, if she has the time.

Hearing her, Malcolm shifts under the porch with a _whuff_ and a groan. She shoulders the rifle and waits on the bottom stair, giving him time to yawn and stretch before he comes creaking out to meet her with his long-suffering smile and lolling tongue.

Malcolm’s a big dog, once formidable, with thick black fur going silvery gray around the muzzle. He was her mother’s when he was a puppy, and slept by the fire, but he’s lived under the porch for the better part of his life, almost as long as Riza can remember. She brings him tattered blankets after she’s gone over them thoroughly for patches, and scraps of dinner whenever she thinks she can get away with it. That’s been easier for her lately, at least – the apprentice’s arrival has created enough upheaval that she’s usually left alone to do the dishes now.

Yawning again, Malcolm gives a small sigh and leans his head against her leg to lick sleepily at her hand. She pats his head and gives him some more time to wake up; he’s as accustomed to this as she is, but he’s aging fast, and last winter went hard on him. They aren’t in too much of a hurry anyways.

The edge of the marsh is about a mile away, as the crow flies, and she and Malcolm have beaten a decent path to it over the past few years. Riza lets him set the pace when they start out, and by the time they’re through the forest his joints have limbered up enough to let him trot. They cut across the Campbells’ cow pasture at a better pace as the sky lightens to early gray, and reach the marsh in good time, with plenty of leeway for her to pick a spot.

There’s a makeshift blind set up close to the place where their path ends, but she’s made good use of it recently and doesn’t want the ducks catching on, so she strikes out in a different direction, towards the spot Edie Campbell mentioned to her in the mercantile last week. Deeper into the marsh the ground sinks away beneath her feet and the water rises to the tops of her boots, then over them and up to her knees. Riza grits her teeth so they don’t chatter at the cold and presses on, resting a hand on Malcolm’s shoulder. With his old bones he’s likely having a worse time of it than she is.

At last she finds the place Edie must have meant: an island of solid ground, well hidden by a stand of reeds and brush. She camps out at the foot of a hollow tree and lets Malcolm lick the imagined taste of breadcrumbs from the palm of her hand. His tongue is soft and flat against her skin, a comfortably wet warmth in the lingering gray chill of dawn. She nestles her other hand into the thick curly fur of his ruff and waits a little longer, thinking absentmindedly that it would be nice to have gloves. Good gloves are a common daydream of Riza’s, second in frequency to a good gun.

The early risers are flying through in scattered groups of two and three before she can think much more about gloves, though, and she flexes her fingers and pulls away from Malcolm to aim. Her first shot goes awry, barely clipping a wing – _stupid_ , and she knows better than to blame the clumsy cold of her hands – so she chews at her lip and re-aims, waiting for another try and ignoring the ache of her shoulder as best she can. She’s more than used to the old rifle’s jerk and bruising kick by now, but the hurt is an unnecessary bitterness on top of the miss.

Her next shot is clean and redeems her, sending Malcolm plunging forward as the duck hits the water, his enthusiasm more than covering the stiff slowness of his gait. The horizon is brightening out over the trees, and Riza brings down another bird before Malcolm has had the time to shake his coat dry. He barks hoarsely with glee and flings himself back into the water as Riza relaxes against the tree, feeling better about her prospects.

By the time the sun is visible, kindling vibrant orange fire in the sky over the trees, she’s gotten two more, their bodies retrieved in short order by Malcolm with typical gusto. She’d like to try for another before heading back, but they’re further away from the path than usual. Risking breakfast isn’t worth it. Still, she looks out over the marsh for a minute longer, and scans the sky again before turning around. It would be nice to stay if they could. The songbirds are all awake and loud with happiness, the ducks and geese squabbling in the water, and Malcolm’s looking at her with a panting smile, his head tilted to one side. Riza smiles back.

As a compromise with herself, they go slowly back through the marsh once she’s strung the ducks up, meandering. Her old work trousers are already soaked through so she doesn’t have to worry about keeping them clean as she and Malcolm range in the general direction of the shore, stopping to smell bushes and frighten minnows and chase frogs. Malcolm does, anyways. She’s content to watch.

He barks once, when they’re almost back to the shore, his alert _come-see_ bark, and she hurries to his side. There’s a nest there, ten duck eggs, still warm. She draws an excited breath when she sees them – a fox got their last laying hen a while back, and though Edie Campbell’s offered pullets, Riza knows not to take charity, so her kitchen has had to make do without eggs for two months. Though a part of her feels underhanded robbing the mother duck, eggs are eggs.

Fortunately she keeps a knit cap stuffed into the interior pocket of the coat for colder days. She shakes it out expertly and puts six of the eggs inside, leaving four in the nest. As they strike out for shore again she reaches down to scratch behind Malcolm’s ears, murmuring nonsense praise to show him how pleased she is. He whines joyfully, puppylike, and pushes his cold nose into her hand.

When they get to their path she has to stop and empty out her boots, and it’s Malcolm’s turn to wait for her, head cocked to one side. She hurries to join him, a laughing feeling welling up inside her when he bows in anticipation then darts away, a dark streak through the tall golden grass, his tail streaming behind him. The boots are clunky and the rifle and ducks weigh her down, but she gives chase as best she can. Even with his creaky bones she can’t catch him until he slows to wait for her. She bends down to let him lick her face, the uncomfortable wideness of a grin breaking momentarily across her mouth when his tongue tickles her ear.

The sky is streaked pink and gold by the time they reach home, the last dark fading behind the western hills. Malcolm nudges her hand and ducks back under the porch – _rub him down later, check his legs_ – and Riza takes the steps two at a time, hat full of eggs secure in one hand, birds and rifle swinging behind her.

She pushes the front door open too quickly and the hinges scream in protest. Cringing, she pulls it gently closed behind her, waiting for the sound of footsteps or a voice. Nothing happens. With a sigh of relief, she steps into the front hall, tugging off her boots and sodden socks as soon as she’s gotten the rifle back over the door. The coat goes next, back onto its hook. The rest of her clothes will have to wait until after breakfast.

It’s late enough now that Riza can stoke the fire in the main room, so she does that before continuing on to the kitchen, using only as much wood as she can justify. Her shoulder is still throbbing and her fingers thawing, her toes frozen, but cooking over the stove will warm her. She leaves the crackling fire behind with only a little regret.

The ducks will have to wait for plucking until after breakfast. Riza thumps them down on the counter as she steps into the kitchen, maybe too forcefully, and then she remembers her father’s apprentice. She puts the eggs in their hat down much more gently before turning to the kitchen table.

He’s where she left him three hours ago, definitely asleep now, slumped onto a half-finished page of equations. His pencil is on the floor, along with the majority of the blankets. When she moves closer to pick up the pencil she can hear him snoring.

She sets it down next to his head, then bends back down for the blankets. Taking them up in an armful, she considers tucking them properly around him - but he’ll be awake sooner rather than later, and there’s bread to toast and, unexpectedly, eggs to fry. She settles for heaping them over his shoulders in an arrangement only slightly less haphazard than she remembers them being when she left. 

That done, Riza turns to light the stove. It’s almost breakfast time.

 


End file.
